by R S Surtees
Woodcock had an acquaintance among grooms through the intervention of valets, he having a brother a valet in a pretty good situation, where he was, of course, improving his opportunity after the usual manner of the brotherhood; and whenever a good-looking nearly worn-out horse was about to be cast he got early intelligence; and competition having about ceased with the extinction of stage-coaches, Woodcock picked up screws very cheap, almost at his own price — ten, fifteen, twenty pounds, perhaps — though this latter price he looked upon as bordering on the fanciful. Twelve or fourteen was about his mark — say three fives and a sov back. That was the price of the valuable animal he now bestrode, who in turn had been a hunter, a racer, a steeple-chaser, and yet condescended to go in a phaeton. Neither his withers nor his quarters, however, discovered any signs of the degrading occupation. Indeed, his teeth were the only real tell-tale feature about him; for though he was weak and washy and tender in the sinews and queer in the feet, still he had all the outward and visible signs of a noble animal, with a fine cock-pheasant-like bloom on his close-lying bay coat. He retained a good deal of the flash and enthusiasm of the chase; indeed, we believe the spirit was willing, though the flesh was weak; and to see him in the excitement of getting away — his ears cocked, his head erect, his tail distended, and his sunken eye still fighting with its former fire — a stranger to him and his master would conceive a very favourable opinion of the animal. Woodcock was a varmint-looking fellow too, dressed in a low-crowned hat, a short brown jacket, stout cords that had seen much service, and boots of so dark a hue as to make it difficult to say where the tops began and the bottoms ended — tops that the deepest-dyed Meltonian would find it difficult to emulate.
Woodcock was a regular once-a-week man, and oftener if he had a customer in view and could get his cripple out. To this end he rode very carefully, always looking out for easy ground and soft footing, and never taking an unnecessary leap unless there was somebody looking — that somebody, of course, being a hoped-for customer. Like all people, however, who cheat in horses, or indeed in anything else — unless they have a large field such as London to practice in — Woodcock had about got through the circle of country flats; and when any one, in reply to the often-put inquiry of “Do you know of a horse that could suit me? “answered, “Yes, Mr Woodcock, the chemist of Fleecyborough, has one,” the rejoinder was pretty sure to be “No, no; no Woodcocks for me, thank’ee.” Such being Woodcock’s position with regard to old stagers, it was doubly incumbent on him to make the most of a new one; and when he heard that the officers at the barracks had sold young Mr Hall a horse, he felt as though he had been defrauded of his rights.
Having, as already stated, got Tom on to the soft on his side of the road, he dropped his reins on his now sweat-dried hunter’s neck, and with the slightest possible pressure of the leg got him into a striding walk, that looked like action and confidence combined. Thus he kept him about half a length in advance of Tom, playing his arms loosely like a jockey, and ever and anon casting a sheep’s eye back to see if Tom was looking. Our friend was not easily attracted, for what with admiring his coat, sticking out his legs to examine his tops, and wondering when his fall-dirtied leathers would dry, coupled with catching at his tripping horse’s head, he had about as much to do as he could manage. Mr Woodcock, feeling that time was precious, varied the performance by touching his horse with the spur, which caused him to grunt and hoist up behind.
“What, he’s a kicker is he?” asked Tom, giving him a wider berth.
“Oh no, sir, no,” replied Woodcock, “nothin’ of the sort, sir — nothin’ of the sort — quietest critter alive.”
“What was he doing then?” asked Tom.
“Oh, it was just my ticklin’ him with the spur,” replied Woodcock, doing it again, when up went the hind-quarters as before. “It’s a trick he’d been taught in the racin’ stable, I think,” added he, patting his arch neck.
“Racing stables!” replied Tom; “what, is he a racehorse?”
“Racehorse! — yes,” exclaimed Woodcock. “This horse,” added he, taking a rein in each hand and staring energetically—” this horse is thoroughbred — thoroughbred as Eclipse. He’s by Jacob the First, dam Jude by Squirrel, grand-dam Maid of the Mill, the dam of Hearts of Oak and Spinning Jenny by Little Boy Blue, great grand-dam Peppermint by Big John, great great granddam” something else, and so on, through an amazing length of imaginary pedigree — a species of weaving at which Mr Woodcock was very handy. Tom Hall sat agape, for he had never heard of a horse with such an ancestry.
“This nag could beat anything out to-day,” observed Woodcock, now turning himself sideways in his saddle and slapping the horse’s hard sides. “He’s quite a contradiction to the usual prejudice that thoroughbreds are shy of thorn fences; for I really believe he likes them better nor any other — if, indeed, he has a partiality for one more than another — for indeed he’s equally good at all sorts. It doesn’t make a penny’sworth of difference to him what you put him at. Post and rail, in and out, stone walls, banks with blind ditches, brooks, bullfinches with yawners on both sides — all alike to him. He’s the most perfect hunter ever man crossed.” So saying, he gave the horse another hearty slap on the side as if in confirmation of what he was saying. “That’s not an unlikely-looking nag of yours,” observed he, now turning his attention to Tom’s horse. “I’ve seen many a worseshaped animal nor that,” added he, with a knowing jerk of his head.
“No, he’s not a bad horse,” replied Tom; “far from it.”
“Not ‘zactly the horse for you, p’r’aps,” continued Woodcock, again reverting to his own—” at least, I think he’s hardly up to your weight; you’ll ride pretty heavy — thirteen or fourteen stun, p’r’aps?”
“About it,” replied Tom, who had no very definite idea on the point.
“Ah well, that horse shouldn’t carry more nor ten — ten or eleven, at most,” continued Woodcock, scrutinising him attentively. “He’s a nice, well-girthed, well-ribbed, well-put-together horse, but he’s small below the knee, and there’s where a hunter should have substance. He’ll be givin’ you an awkward fall some day,” said he, drawing a long face, and giving an ominous shake of the head.
Scarcely were the words out of Woodcock’s mouth ere the horse struck against a hassocky tuft of grass, and nearly blundered on to his nose. Nothing but the pommel of the saddle saved Tom another roll.
“Hold up his head, his tail’s high enough!” exclaimed Major Ryle, as horse and rider floundered along in doubtful result.
“Ah, that’s just what I expected, sir,” observed Woodcock condolingly, as Tom at length got shuffled back into the saddle—” that’s just what I expected, sir. It’s a pity — a great pity — for he’s a pretty horse — a very pretty horse — but he’s not fit to carry you, sir; indeed he’s not, sir. You’ll have an accident, as sure as fate, sir, if you persist in riding him.”
Tom looked frightened.
“I’d get out of him before he does you an ill turn,” observed Woodcock. “Think what a thing it would be if he was to brick your neck — you, with your manifold money, messuages, and tenements without end!”
Tom did think what a go it would be if such a calamity were to befall him.
“You’d have no difficulty in gettin’ shot of him,” continued Woodcock, “‘cause he’s a neat, creditable, gentlemanly-lookin’ horse; but, ‘handsome is that handsome does,’ is my motto; and it matters little whether you brick your neck off a cow or off Flyin’ Childers himself, so long as you do brick it.”
“True,” observed Hall, feeling his now much-deranged white Joinville, as if to see that his neck was right.
Woodcock was in hopes of something more encouraging; but after riding on for some time in silence, and seeing they were approaching Major Ryle’s lion-headed gates, which would probably throw Bowman upon them for the rest of the way, he observed, after a good stare at Hall’s horse —
“I really think that horse of yours
might carry me. He’s up to my weight, I should say. P’r’aps you wouldn’t have any objection to sellin’ of him?”
Tom, who was most heartily disgusted with his purchase, hadn’t the slightest objection to selling him — indeed, would gladly be out of him, even at a trifling sacrifice, though, of course, as a true chip of the old block, he wasn’t going to commit himself by saying so.
“Oh,” replied he, in an easy indifferent sort of way, “I wouldn’t mind selling him if I could get my price.”
“You’ll p’r’aps be wantin’ a good deal?” suggested Woodcock.
“Why, I gave a good deal for him; and, of course, one doesn’t invest capital without expecting a return — at least we don’t at our bank,” replied Tom.
“True,” rejoined Woodcock; “but horses are often the ‘ception to the rule — few gents get what they give.”
“Ah, that’s because they want the money, or don’t know how to manage matters,” replied Tom, who thought himself rather a knowing hand. “However,” continued he, thinking to do the man whom nobody had ever done, “I’ll take a hundred and fifty for him, if you know any one who’ll give it.”
“A hundred and fifty — a hundred and fifty,” mused Woodcock, sucking his lips, and looking the horse attentively over, apparently not much appalled by the magnitude of the sum. “How old is he?”
“Oh, I s’pose eight or nine,” replied Tom—” eight or nine — just in his prime — just in his prime — seasoned hunter, you know — seasoned hunter.”
“Well, I don’t say he’s not worth it,” replied Woodcock obligingly—” I don’t say he’s not worth it; indeed, considering what this one cost,” alluding to his own, “he may be cheap of the money.”
This was satisfactory to Tom, and looking as if he hadn’t paid too dear for his whistle. Still, Tom did not lead on in the accommodating sort of way that Woodcock could have wished, and our persevering friend had to make all the running himself.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind makin’ a swap?” at length observed he, seeing how near they were getting to the major’s gates.
“Why, no, I wouldn’t,” drawled Tom, “provided I could get something to suit better — something a little stronger, p’r’aps.”
That was encouraging, and Woodcock proceeded to follow up his advantage.
“How would this do for you, now?” asked he, putting the question boldly, as he threw forward his arms, as if to show his perfect confidence in the sure-footed bay.
Tom eyed the horse attentively, looking at him as all men do at their neighbours’ horses, with a feeling of covetousness — thinking how well he would look upon him.
“Is he a good fencer?” at length asked he.
“Oh, capital fencer,” replied Woodcock, sucking and smacking his lips, as if the very thought of his leaping was syrup to him; “capital leaper — grand fencer. Didn’t you see him clear the hog-backed stile, with the foot-plank over the big rotten ditch, just now, at the back of Willey Rogerson’s pea-stacks, just after we crossed Mr Cocksfoot’s hard corn?”
Tom had not, being too intent on sticking to his own shopboard to have time to notice the performances of others.
“Well, he did,” rejoined Mr Woodcock, again sucking his breath—” he did, and after Brassey and another, too, had refused. Up he came, as cool and collected as possible, and took it like winking.”
“Indeed!” said Hall, who now began to appreciate the difference between an easy and an awkward fencer. Not but that Tom would make any horse awkward, only he did not think so himself. His idea was that the bridle was equally meant to hold on by as the saddle. “This horse is a good leaper,” observed Tom, thinking it was time he was saying something handsome for his.
“Is he?” said Woodcock cheerfully, as if quite ready to take Tom’s word for it; “just let us trot on a bit,” continued he, “and see his action,” though in reality he wanted to shoot away from Bowman, who would soon be on their hands, to the serious detriment of a deal.
Tom did as requested, but though his horse had a good deal more go in him than Woodcock’s, the latter contrived, by judicious handling, pressing, and feeling, to make his step out in a way that quite outpaced Tom’s. As Woodcock came to where the strip of grass ran out to nothing on the road, he pulled up, with an apparent effort, though in reality the weakly horse was but too glad to obey the bit, and looking back at Tom, who was still labouring along — the farther he went, the farther he was left behind — Woodcock exclaimed, “Well, mine has the foot of yours, at all events, in trotting.”
“Ra-a-a-ther,” ejaculated Tom, pulling and hauling away at his horse’s mouth, adding, “But mine can go when he’s fr-r-esh.”
“He’s done nothing to tire him to-day,” observed Woodcock.
“Oh, but I rode him to co-o-ver like blazes,” observed Tom, still fearing to trust his horse with his head.
This was true, for Lily-of-the-Valley was very impetuous with Angelena at starting, and she had thought it best to let her go, and a smart canter was the consequence.
“Well now, shall we have a deal?” asked Woodcock briskly, thinking the trot had given his horse a decided advantage over Tom’s.
“What will you give me to boot?” asked Tom, determined to begin on the safe side, however he might end.
“Give!” exclaimed Woodcock, opening wide his mouth and exhibiting an irregular set of tobacco-stained teeth—” give!” repeated he, breaking into a horse-laugh; “it’s what will you give, I should think,” replied he.
“Suppose we try them at evens?” suggested Tom, who in his heart fancied Woodcock’s horse, as well on account of his looks as because he seemed easy to ride.
Woodcock shook his head ominously.
They then rode on together for some time in silence, Tom pondering whether he should offer a sum or ask Woodcock to name one; while the wily chemist kept eyeing Tom’s vacant countenance, and looking over his shoulder to see where he had Bowman.
“Well, what will you take?” at last asked Tom.
“What will I take?” repeated Woodcock, sucking away at his lips as if every thought of the horse was luscious—” what will I take?” continued he, as if the idea of price had never entered his mind. “Well,” said he, “I’ll tell you in two words” — a phrase that generally means anything but what it professes—” I’ll tell you in two words,” repeated he. “I reckon your horse is not altogether an unsuitable horse for me, though I think he’s an unsuitable horse for you. In the fust place, you see, he’s under your weight, and there can’t be a more grievous, direful, aggravatin’ fault for a hunter than being under your weight. There can’t be a more disastrous lamentable bedevilment than, in the middle of a good run, to find your horse gradually sinkin’ beneath you, till at last he sticks out his neck with a throat-rattle, and comes to a dead standstill in the middle of a field. What a thing for a gent in a scarlet coat, and all complete as you are, to have to drive his horse home before him, or give a countryman a shillin’, or may be eighteenpence, for gettin’ him into the nearest stable. No, sir, no; take my word for it, if you want to hunt comfortably and creditably, you must have a horse rather over than under your weight; so that, when hounds are apparently slipping away, you may feel that you can take a liberty with him with impunity; or when they are drawin’ homewards — which they all do, confound them! when the master’s not out, which, however, is not often the case with the old cock at the Castle — but, I say, when hounds are drawin’ homewards, the contrary way, in course, to where you live, you may say, ‘Oh, hang it, I’ll go, my horse wants work’; or, ‘Hang it, I’ll go, this horse never tires,’ instead of saying, ‘Well, Mr Woodcock,’ or, ‘Well, Mr Bowman, I s’pose we must shut up — we must be toddlin’ homewards; don’t do for us to run the risk of bein’ benighted.’ So that I may conscientiously say, that a gent like you, with ample means and a bank to back him, doesn’t do himself ordinary justice who rides anything but perfect horses — horses that are equal to more than his wei
ght, and can do everything that my lord’s or anybody else’s horse can do, and do it comfortably to the rider, instead of fretting, and fuming, and fighting, and going tail first at his fences, as some aggravatin’ animals do, instead of fust lookin’ and then poppin’ over, as this horse does,” our friend patting the bay as if extremely fond of him. “Now,” continued he, as Tom made no response at this interval, “I’m not a man wots always runnin’ down other people’s horses, and praisin’ of my own — far from it; neither am I a man wot always has the best horse in England under him; on the contrary, I’ve been bit as often as most men. But I don’t hold with some that, because I’ve been bit, I’ve to bite others. Oh no! that’s not the way — fair dealin’s a jewel. I’d as soon think of sellin’ a man oxalic acid for Epsom salts, as I would of sellin’ him a bad horse as a good un — one as I know’d to be bad, howsomever,” added he, looking intently at our friend.
“Ah well,” observed Tom, with a chuck of the chin, “that’s not the point. The point I want to know is, what you’ll take to change horses with me?”
